


You can bring the fire, I can bring the bones

by merrythoughts



Series: I know my soul's freezing, Hell's hot for good reason [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger, Come Marking, Disturbing Themes, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Nightmares, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Power Dynamics, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romantic Angst, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Trauma, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8431588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: You’re not alone with him very often, but you're content to simply be around him in any capacity, for any duration. It doesn't take long for you to fall back into the old routine, to easily smile and laugh and be his best friend again. (It’s what he deserves, after all)Like you don a uniform and play the part of the dutiful soldier, you wear your old self like a suit. It fits most of the time and people are too busy to notice your fraying seams.[Covers the events in The First Avenger; Bucky-centric: a look at his psyche and the changing dynamics of his relationship with Steve.]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pugge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pugge/gifts).



> Please heed the tags! I don't believe anything is _overly_ graphic, but I decided to go with the warning just in case. I didn't think I'd ever do an OC, but he serves a purpose, I swear and the relationship is minor.
> 
> Major thanks goes to my boyfriend who beta'd this and was my sounding board for SO MUCH x) He wrote one of the mushiest paragraphs too... hmm.
> 
> Never wrote in this tense before, but it was fun/effective. Dare I say I attempted some stylistic shit and hopefully it's not annoying.
> 
> Comments & kudos gratefully accepted. (I'M NEW TO POSTING MY SHIT, PLEASE SUPPORT MEEEE)
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here](http://merrythought.tumblr.com):D xoxo
> 
> Last, but not least: for my [pumpkin](http://dethrimme.tumblr.com/) ♥ I'm sorry I spoiled so much of this already to you, but I was just so excited (and I suck)

_Like a wave across a rocky shore,_  
_I stretch over land and always want more._  
_You are the earth I can't reach,_  
_impossibly far for a gentle wave like me._  
  
_But I'll never stop pushing forward,_  
_as you can very well see._  
_I'll crash and crash and crash and crash_  
_until you notice me,_  
_and when you do_  
_I swear I'll be the most beautiful thing you've seen._  
  
_If only I could make you want me too._  
  
_The gravity of my feelings aren't enough_  
_to push me through to you._  
_There isn't anything I wouldn't do_  
_to crash right next to you._  
_Even if I did I know_  
_it'd be short lived._  
_Eventually everything will return to the sea,_  
_including me._  
_Where I will crash upon your rocky shore_  
_forever more_

_(The Shore by[Thomas Conlan](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1124638/the-shore/))_

* * *

There could have been fear or disgust in his eyes but, no. There's only love and enduring patience and what's infinitely worse: acceptance and understanding.

You did it because you think you’re going to die.

Most likely.

Because death goes hand in hand with war, and why would you be be spared? You're just another number, another soldier, another son, brother… friend.

When you got that conscription letter your hands shook so badly, knuckles white; a death sentence never looked so concise.

You lied to everyone and claimed you signed up, volunteered to assist the allies and “show 'em who's boss.”

When you told him, his eyes, for once were unreadable to you. He probably knew the truth, but let you have your lie.

You grinned and filled out that uniform with your warm body anyway; it would look just as sharp on a corpse, you think.

You went to Basic, trained and returned, like it was no big deal.  Now you’re being shipped out to England in two days; so you kissed him, your head tilted to the right, your eyes open and mouth closed. He didn't kiss back, but didn't pull away, so you did.

“Bucky…” Voice soft, his large eyes fixate on you.

“Steve.”

(Two young men stare each other, toes crossing an invisible line.)

“What… d’ya need from me?” He somehow knows that this about him giving and you taking.

And isn't that the million dollar question.

You're both standing in the cramped kitchen, it's late, now isn't the time, but you don't really have any time, do you? You're a little drunk, a little reckless, so you answer honestly, “I just need _you_.”

He swallows, eyelids blinking rapidly before he nods. A delicate hand comes to rest on your forearm. It's the only sign you need before you surge forward, leaning down, wrapping your arms around his smaller form and crushing your mouth to his. It's rough, sloppy and you hear him make a sound - or is that you?

It's not what he deserves. Steve deserves all the sweetness, a slow and soft exploration, but you are sandpaper, coarse and grating.

Your mouth takes, your hands grip, your heart _longs_ —

You draw back, let him catch a breath. You could use one too. His lips are wet, cheeks red and he's _beautiful_. Your heart—

“I still like broads,” you mumble suddenly.

It's a stupid thing to say, all things considered.

“Me too,” Steve replies like it isn't, and that's why you fucking love him something fierce.

You lead him to the bedroom. Just enough light from the streets makes it through the shabby drapes that you can see what needs to be seen, and do what needs to be done, without having to turn on the lights and make a spectacle of it. You strip him out of his shirt and undershirt, dropping the articles of clothing to the floor, and push him on your bed. It creaks as you climb on it and groans as you climb on him. Your legs straddle narrow hips and you're equal parts scared and excited.

Your hands grip at bony wrists, holding Steve's arms by his head as if he would push you away, as if he would stop your needy advances. This isn't like you, but here you are anyway. Your heart is thundering away in your chest as you wrestle with the realization of what’s happening. What _could_ happen.

But when he doesn’t resist, your hands slide up, fingers interlocking with his, like you imagine lovers would do.

Your heart swells.

Your mouth takes all it can, kissing him insistently and then along his jaw before sucking at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He’s not soft and feminine like girls you've been with before, with their alluring curves and sweat overlaid with strong perfume. Steve is slender (you’d never say scrawny), composed of hard angles, unyielding beneath you. He smells like your shared aftershave and laundry detergent, like _home_.

He squirms, biting his bottom lip and fighting valiantly to not make a sound because, even on his best friend’s bed, he has something to prove. Seeing the struggle there only makes you harder and double your efforts. You happen to be pretty good with that mouth of your’s and when you finally manage to coax out a sound you feel both victorious and vindicated.  

Your lips skim along his collarbone as you lick a journey down his sternum, tongue dipping into his bellybutton. You give a heated sigh. You might be shaking.

(You're probably shaking.)

Later, when he comes, his eyes are tightly shut even though his head is turned away. You pull your hand out from his pants and it’s coated with proof.

“Look at me,” you murmur as that same messy hand finds its way inside your slacks, into your underwear and wraps around your dick. Steve faces back, flushed, eyes slowly opening. They then widen in disbelief at the scene happening above him.

“Bucky...”

Your hand moves fast, fist tight, and you’re panting.   

“I don't want to—” you start, desperately.

Don't want to, what, go to war? Die? Orgasm? Have things go back to normal between the two of you?

(Because if it wasn't for the former, he'd never allow this. Granted, you also never would have tried anything.)

“It's okay… it'll be okay,” he soothes in a low voice, hands coming to rest on your thighs and squeezing.

You know it isn't the truth, but you accept the lie because it's from him.

He rubs at your legs, eyes staring back at you and completely _present._ It's the most connected you two have been all night. Your stomach tightens, chest heaves and you moan out his name like a litany, devoted to this single moment where it’s just you and him.

“Let yourself, Buck… come for me,” he urges and it has you shuddering and obeying within a few seconds flat, gasping loudly as your release crashes up upon you.

Afterward, as if you were some primal thing, you're wiping your sticky hand across his chest and down his stomach, marking up what's not yours.

(Oh, how you wish he was yours though.)

Nothing's really changed or better. You know this, deep down in your bones, just like you know  you'll never talk about last night. Tomorrow is still your last day in Brooklyn being James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes, living with your best friend and only having to worry about keeping steady employment and keeping him as healthy as possible.

He stays in your bed and you hold onto each other, both filthy with sweat and drying come and both silent as the hours tick by into the night. With your clean hand you stroke his hair, an action that you've only done when he was sick and out of it. He hates being coddled, but Steve continues to let you have your way.

(It's actually a small consolation.)

It’s business as usual the next night as you have a pretty little brunet on your arm and the two of you are on a double date, that predictably, doesn't go too well for him.

When you part at the recruitment office, it's with a hug, a joke, and a salute.

Your heart feels a bit tighter.

At least he'll be rejected again, you think.

(It’s another small consolation.)

* * *

You hate the war as much as you knew you would. It's cold and bleak and you see death from both sides. Boys younger and men older than you get riddled with bullet holes, their faces frozen in horror as if they hadn't been aware that this could be their fate. Death isn't discriminatory.

You're all too aware of that possibility (you're not brave and stupid like Steve)

You meet Roy Kinney, a fresh faced eighteen-year-old who reminds you of Steve. He has a curly mop of dirty blonde hair, freckles and glittering green eyes. He's shorter than you, but not by much, built more athletically, like a runner. He's beautiful in a way you may not have let yourself notice before.

(It's his long fingers and thin wrists that you find yourself looking at far too often.)

He’s chatty and friendly and although you aren't here to make friends, he eventually wins you over. He invites you over to his family’s farm in Kansas, you know, after the war, like it could be next week. You agree, thinking that another blonde you know would love to draw the scenery out there.

“We have horses too,” Roy informs you as the two of you are on dish duty one night.

You give a noncommittal sound, not really paying attention.

“Who ya thinkin bout? You've got the look of a man missing his girl badly,” he replies, elbowing you playfully.

“Somebody,” you grin slyly. You don't know why you're even being honest. You haven't shared much about yourself with him, but he has a stupid earnest face that encourages you to do stupid things.

(He's like Steve in this regard)

“Lucky,” he sighs. “I ain't even had a kiss yet.” The admission has him blushing, clearing his throat and returning to washing the next plate a little too intently.

You find it adorable.

You watch him a moment, considering, and he eventually looks back up, feeling your gaze.

“I could change that... later if you want,” you offer lightly, head tilted to the side, eyebrow cocking up in a challenge. It’s up to him if he takes it as a joke or a serious overture.

It’s the first time you’ve made a pass at a man, because Steve doesn’t count. It’s time to find out if you could be an actual _queer_ or not - if it’s just Steve you find yourself wanting to kiss.

You know Roy won't clock you, won't call you a fucking fairy because of how his mouth parts now and because you’ve seen how emerald eyes linger a little longer than what's polite to do so in the showers.

Your intuition was right.

“Wow, okay, uh, sure…” he mumbles, apparently quite the eager beaver and blushing harder which makes you smirk.

The two of you finish the dishes in silence that’s permeated with a layer of heady anticipation. You lead, he follows, and you slip off into kitchen storehouse, knowing that it will be vacant.

Noticing his rigid posture you smile, “Ease up, it’ll be good, I promise.”

You keep your promise - hands coming to hold onto his slightly stubbled face while you give Roy Kinney his first kiss. You’re sweet, undemanding and he eventually grips onto your uniform, looking for an anchor in this moment. You’re more than appreciative that he’s not overly shy as he _mmm’s_ during the kiss and even whines when you make a move to pull away.

You can work with this.

(It’s the soft exploration you wished you’d treated a different blonde to.)

You enjoy it, which answers your earlier question.

(But you still like women, your mind points out; it’s important to note that James Barnes _ain’t_ a complete queer.)

A few days later he asks you about your “somebody” back at home and your stomach takes a dive. You figure you owe him the truth, tit for tat, only fair. You know his whole life story, after all: two older sisters, father and mother were childhood sweethearts, if he'd been smart enough and finished school, he'd have loved to be be an animal doctor. He loves breakfast, could eat it it for any meal, he can play the piano, but his parents don't care for jazz (which you've told him you love, he tells you that he’ll play it for you anyway).

“My friend, but… nothins’ gonna come of it,” you answer and get back to eating, despite the truth in your words having quashed your appetite.

“Sounds like it’s their loss then,” Roy replies, taking care to mind the pronoun.

You swallow your mouthful of bland porridge. “Awfully sweet of you, but you don't even know me.” It's not said unkindly nor loudly, given your proximity to others in the mess hall.

“I'd like to.” He stares you down and you're not used to Roy being quite this forward.

You chuckle, maybe even blush a little as you look down at your half empty bowl. You're not often caught off guard.

“In time…” You throw him a quick wink.  Because maybe, just maybe, he could—

It feels real swell to be wanted.

(You're also happy to _have_ a friend out here.)

Because of his age, your unit thinks he follows you around like a younger brother. That's okay with you, you even encourage it, coming up with the nickname “Kiddo-Kinney.” He’s a good sport, but you still make it up to him later, kissing the insides of his quaking thighs and practicing a new oral skill set you didn't possess before.

* * *

“You could come work on our farm.”

Your hand stills in his hair.

(He doesn't mind you being touchy like this, actually likes it. It's weird)

“I know nothin’ about that life. I’d be a fish outta water.”

Picturing yourself leaving Brooklyn would meaning leaving Steve. That frightens you, but carrying a torch for him and not having anything come of it seems almost as bad. Your fingers continue playing with his curls. It’s another night after kitchen duty and the two of you are back in the dry storage, huddled behind boxes, his head resting on your chest.

“So what? You're smarter than me and you'd learn it all real quick.”

“Yeah…”

Before he can argue his point further, you pull his head up for a kiss. He's improved under your tutelage; you're kinda proud. You could open up a “Bucky Barnes’ School for Smoochin’.” He snorts and thwaps you when you tell him of your idea.

(Afterward, makes you wonder what you could teach Steve… You feel mildly guilty that you're thinking of your “somebody,” but it happens less now - at least there's that)

You don't know if you can see yourself ending up with a man, but you know you like touching him, like doting on him and hearing Roy giggle as you whisper sweet nothings in his ear when you've pulled him aside. You've always been a charmer and you love seeing the blatant adoration displayed on his face.

(You ignore the inkling that he's a stand-in for Steve; you'd never be that cruel, would you?)

* * *

Next Tuesday Roy finds a mine. You swallow back the vomit that threatens to come up when you realize that there won't even be a body for his family to mourn.

You should have known better.

You tell yourself that making plans is for knuckleheads and that you didn't really want to go to Kansas, anyway.

After his few belongings have been cleared away, you dry heave until your stomach cramps.

Maybe this is punishment for letting yourself be selfish.

Maybe this is punishment for using Roy as a surrogate.

You shake in bed and vow to not repeat the same mistake again.

(Also, no more Army friends, what _were_ you thinking?)

* * *

You write one letter:

_Steve,_

_I'm fine. Things are… I won't bother with the details. I'm sure you'll hear enough. At least I’m seeing the world right? I'm glad you're not here. Thinking about you safe and back at home helps me get through all this. I know it will be hard, but do try and keep your nose clean and outta trouble._ ~~_I think about that night in the kitchen and in the bedroom and I..._~~

You scratch out the last line and sign it off with,

_Your Bucky_

There will be enough written about this war when it's over, without you adding too many more words.

He's not your dame, not your girl waiting back at home, gazing out of a window with forlorn eyes.

(But if he was you'd write him a letter a day, or at least you’d try. You have so much going on in your head that it would be nice to get anything out on paper)

He's the last thing on your mind when you close your eyes at night and vaguely wonder if tomorrow is the day you die.

* * *

In Azzano your unit is overwhelmed by Nazis, but suddenly, with flashes of brilliant blue, the enemies are annihilated.

Turns out, there’s something worse than Nazis, something called HYDRA and they want prisoners instead of obliterated remains.  

You're captured, brought to an enormous factory, sorted, with able bodied men are immediately forced into grueling work. Those who were injured or too weak are never seen again.

Turns out, you could be a soldier, but you make for one lousy prisoner.

* * *

You compose a letter in your head, one you'd never send even if you had the chance:

_I'm in a bad way here. Can’t even lie. Didn't have him on the ropes at all. I'll never know why you got into so many fights when it hurts so bad when you lose… I’m kidding._

_I guess I'm skipping ahead. I'm going to die here. I can feel myself giving up and when we stop working hard enough, we ain't useful to them and you can guess what happens then. But it's okay, I served my country, whatever that means. Hopefully made you proud too._

As you’re strapped down to a table, you’re not so certain that you’ll be going out the way you expected. Things aren't looking good for you, soldier. You know no one has returned when they’ve been selected and taken to the isolation ward.

You gaze up at the ceiling and exhale, trying to keep yourself from shaking. Fear is a familiar friend, but at least you knew what to expect when you were marching and crawling through cold mud.

You’ve heard about the experiments.

You start to shake anyway.

At some point a small unremarkable scientist who introduces himself as Zola slides a needle into your vein, and when he presses the plunger down, you scream until you pass out from the pain that courses through your body.

In and out of consciousness, you think you hear an appraising voice declare, “How wonderful, it looks like this one will make it.”

You don't think it's wonderful at all, but your mouth is dry, your tongue thick, you're burning up and aching all over. You can't seem to get any words out, let alone tell them to go to Hell.

“You're going to be special, Sergeant Barnes,” he comments idly.

You don't like the sound of that.

You don't know what's coming, but you're certain it would have been better to die out in the mud.

* * *

“I heard you moan a name,” he says almost conversationally, looking at a clipboard.

“Steve?” You croak. It's been awhile since anyone has talked _to_ you, instead of _at_ you or around you. Days. Maybe a week, but you’re often confused.

“Mm.”

“He's my… my… friend?” you answer, somewhat uncertain. You watch Zola with feverish eyes.

But then memories light up in your mind and your mouth opens and you begin babbling, sharing how the two of you met. How, even though he was small, the fathead was ready, at the drop of a hat, to stand up for what was right. You tell him how you would rub your hands over his bony back and chest during the wintertime, worrying your bottom lip, praying to a God you weren't sure even existed that he wouldn't get pneumonia again.

You tell him that you're glad Steve will never be fit to fight in this war.

Lost in memories, you’re a bit giddy.

It doesn't last long as he states, “Hm, you said similar things yesterday.”

You say nothing now, blinking stupidly at the small man.

“Subject still appears disoriented, short-term memory remains damaged.” He mutters as a pen scribbles down the observations.

“Shall we see what your clotting results are this time around, soldier?"

“Yeah. O-okay,” you answer. It's easier to comply. At one point, you thrashed and weakly fought back.

You don't anymore.

And maybe you're a little curious because corpses don't bleed, do they?

(But you still do...)

The scalpel catches your eye, held by a man wearing white surgical  gloves who doesn’t necessarily look evil. He’s just following orders. That’s a thing you’ve learned about war, out on the front lines there’s only desperation and will to survive. The men who have power and pull the strings, they’re the evil ones.

The incisions are always of of varying lengths and depths.

Site 1 is your left calf. You feel a series of quick shallow slices come. The sting is familiar, the pain bringing you moments of clarity and for that you are thankful, letting your mind fall back to the comfort of the past.

_He draws you with an intensity in his blue eyes that makes your stomach fill with butterflies. You're wearing a sweaty undershirt, dusty slacks, with the unused suspenders hanging down by your sides. You’re by the window watching the sunset over the canvas of Brooklyn and he's on the skimpy brown sofa, hunched over his sketchbook, small and full of concentration._

_After years of friendship, there is an easy companionable silence. You're fourteen-years-old and you would never stand this still for anyone, not even for your ma when she gave you the Look._

_He hmm's and erases something, eyebrows drawing in as he glances back and forth between the sketch and you, all serious and focused._

_“Better make me look good, pal,” you joke, crooked grin on your face. You want to see him smile. You live for that smile._

_He gives it to you as his posture eases, face relaxing as he regards you. “Yeah, but, I’ve only got so much to work with.”_

_You both laugh. You're fourteen years old and being at the center of Steve Roger’s world is where you want to remain._

When you blink and and reality comes back into focus, you're trembling all over. The last site’s incision is longer, across your abdomen, done slowly and carefully. Despite its depth, you never bleed out.

(But you wish you would.)

The metallic smell of blood has you grimacing, but at least it's entirely your own this time.

They stitch up the opening on your stomach.

You’ll be good to go for another round of tests soon enough. 

* * *

It’s a brute that snaps a few of your fingers and it’s the sound that gets to you the most. You lay there, hands tingling, digits swollen and numb; you think back to the times you tended to the various bruised and bloodied lips, cheeks and eyes of a certain blonde.

No one ices your injuries, of course.

At first, you think it’s just torture for torture's sake, but when you say as much, Zola chides you, explaining that there is always a reason for what HYDRA does. You nod, accepting his rationale.

(How could you know any better?)

It doesn't faze you that the bones mend themselves within a handful of days because in here, on the table, time is irrelevant. You have no idea how long you've been here for, but it has to have been months at least.

“You're doing very well, soldier,” Zola praises you. He's the only one that talks to you in English, the only one that talks to you at all, and that means something to you.

You might be smiling, you can't really tell.

He examines your hand and you experimentally wiggle your fingers. You know that’s what he's interested in. They're a little stiff, but seem fully functional.

“Tomorrow, we are going to see how that marvelous body of yours deals with a bullet,” Zola informs you.

Seems reasonable enough to you.

(What else would you be good for?)

The next day they shoot you cleanly through the left arm and now you know what a bullet tearing through your flesh feels like.

It might be sweat or tears rolling down your face when they bandage up the wound, you can't really tell.

* * *

You don't know how you've come to this point, repeating your name and serial number, your brain stuffed with cotton, it feels like. The doctors don't seem to care, only hushing you when you get a little too loud for their liking.

Even Zola has stopped having conversations with you.

You're lonelier than you have ever been.

“...3-2-5-5-7...” It has a nice ring to it, you think.

Distant commotion, Zola scurrying around, gathering up his things; he's fleeing, leaving you—

It turns out Steve is what's coming. Maybe you’ve cracked, but your lips curve upward because what a beautiful image to behold - that familiar face gazing down at you, here _with_ you.

He’s in somebody else’s body, it doesn't make much sense to you, but he sounds the same, has the same nose, same blue eyes and he... saves you? Feels odd to be the one needing saving; it happens nevertheless as Steve rips off your restraints like they are fake play things. He guides you up. You lean on him.

He explains a bit, but none of it really makes any sense. Some quick points about joining the Army, a scientist, a Stark, a serum.

Seeing him eventually helps clear the haze in your mind and in no time your body seems to be jogging next to him like that's where it’s always belonged.

He's Captain America now, but he’s still Steve Rogers and your worst nightmare has come to pass because there’s no way he’ll leave now that he's got a taste for heroism.

You can’t keep the surprise off of your face when he informs you that you’ve only been gone a month.

You walk thirty some miles with dread in your gut, mind jittery, body operating more than adequately for the abuse you think it took.

* * *

They think you have a choice, saying that you could go home if you want, saying you’ve done enough - _been through_ enough. How could you choose to abandon him when he’s never backed down or run away from a fight?

No, you don’t really have a choice. That decision was made for you when Steve turned up. That decision was written in stone when you could see that he was itching to get back out there and fight, to _make a difference_.

You lie during the debriefing, shaking your head at their questions. You tell yourself they’re lies of omission - that’s what your ma called them. You don't mention the injection, the tests, nor your conversations with Zola. You don’t mention that after - what you can hardly believe has only been - a month of torture you walked side by side with Cap for thirty miles either.

You don't mention that you took something back with you, something buried inside of you. Sharp and lethal, like a scalpel.

They have no other choice, but to nod and accept it all at face value. They’re not really interested in _you_ , because it's Steve who has relevant information about other HYDRA bases.

When you’re alone you check your calves, thighs, forearms, wrists, and find nothing. It’s only when you lift your shirt, glancing down at your belly you see the faintest of scars. Well, isn't that just strange.  Maybe that's where they—

Your left arm has a small circular scar, but you can't remember how you got it.

Your heart is tired, but what part of you isn't?

* * *

You flirt with her, the old Bucky bravado making a failed comeback as Peggy Carter - the first woman to completely capture Steve's attention - declines the offer to dance without even a single look at you. Making a joke about being invisible is the only way you know how to deal with it.

He chuckles at least.

Your hands clench and your heart—

From observation, word of mouth and the few things Steve willingly gives up, you know she's a keeper, even you can't deny that. You find the way he falters around her to be endearing too, which only irritates you further. She's brave, uncompromising, stunningly beautiful, and so much like him. They're a force to be reckoned with; they’re gonna change history, you think. Like two pieces from the same puzzle box, they fit together in a way you can't help but be envious of.

Later, Steve notices you watching them and he frowns, obviously not liking the expression you're wearing.

Well, you don't like it either, but you can’t hide it all the damn time. You turn away and stiffly walk out of the command post.

* * *

You're a part of the Howling Commandos and you're out to rid the world of HYDRA, one base at a time. Or something like that. They're good men, you like most of ‘em, too, but it’s easy to do so when you don’t cause much of a ruckus about anything. You wouldn't call any of them friends, though.

You aim and squeeze the trigger and an adversary falls. Most of the time you don't even see a face, their heads hidden behind goggles and inside helmets.

You could squint and look directly down the barrel of your rifle and shoot, bullet after bullet, dropping body after body, because you have a purpose now. It’s nice and simple and you’re good. Better than good. The best.

(You weren’t before, though...)

Death doesn’t really get to you anymore either. You’d like to think it’s because you’re with Steve and seeing his determination and conviction makes it feel like you’re doing the right thing. That reasoning is better than the other possibility, that some parts of you are just numb, possibly even dead.

You’re not alone with him very often, but you're content to simply be around him in any capacity, for any duration. It doesn't take long for you to fall back into the old routine, to easily smile and laugh and be his best friend again. 

(It’s what he deserves, after all.)

Like you don a uniform and play the part of the dutiful soldier, you wear your old self like a suit. It fits most of the time and people are too busy to notice your fraying seams.

* * *

You dream of the table. You dream of something dark and insidious working its way out of the opening in your belly, clawing past stitches to escape its confines, your entrails spilling out as it eventually finds its freedom. You’re helpless, strapped down as a monster climbs out of you.

You wake up drenched in sweat and petrified. You tell yourself this is why you don’t sleep very much.

It’s half true.

* * *

You wander off into the trees, unzip, and piss. It's quiet on your watch, just the way the night should be. Just the way you like it. You go off alone far too often than is probably safe to do so, but sometimes you just need to get away. You're a team, sure, but you know you'd be the odd one out if someone was looking.

They all share about their hopes and dreams for after the war; you have nothing to contribute and they’ve stopped asking. You remember what happened when you made plans. They label you as the quiet, mysterious one and leave it at that. Steve knows that wasn't always the case, but stays silent, instead watching you with wary eyes.

The snap of a twig has you finishing in a hurry, tucking your dick back into your pants and spinning around. You reach for your gun before sighing in relief as you recognize the familiar form of one Steve Rogers, illuminated by moonlight. It used to be unfamiliar, that bigger body, the picture of health and perfection. It has the same soul, though and that soul is what you see.

“You startled me,” you admit and walk away from the wet spot on the dirt and toward him. You’ll always gravitate to him, like the ocean's tides to the moon.

“Sorry.” A pause as he examines you. “You’re different,” he states, but doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to. You both know what he’s referring to.

“Yeah...”

Your hand wants to travel to the scar on your stomach and stroke along the barely raised edges.

You don't.

You may be a little delirious because you’re suddenly pushing your luck, pushing him up against a tree and he frowns in that disapproving way that you’ve seen too often directed at you. You drop your gun to the ground (a rash, foolish thing you do) and your hands are clasping at his leather jacket, eyes a bit wild. Your heart is pounding away in your chest.

“Please?” You’ve heard that frantic edge in your voice before.

(You don’t want to think about when.)

You hope that’s not pity in his eyes that you see. You crowd up against him, body flush against his... but it’s wrong now.

All wrong.

He has those same concerned and caring eyes, but that’s not enough. He’s not the same boy you kissed in the kitchen or the punk getting into fights in back allies. He’s not brittle nor small.

(You kind of feel that way, though.)

Maybe he senses that inherent wrongness too. You’d like to think so as you pull him away, twisting around with him in tow and taking his place a moment later. He allows all of this, allows you to haul him into you and effectively pin yourself between his body and the tree.

You shake and rest your forehead on his chest. It’s a terribly weak, womanly thing to do, but you can’t help it.

“Buck…” A whisper. His hands come to rest on your shoulders, warm and confident. You’ve seen him kill with those hands. You've seen him open a door for Peggy with those hands. Now they’re on you, a grounding presence, but it’s not enough to quell your tremors.

His grip tightens. “I got you, yeah?... You're okay,” he reassures. It could be a lie.

(It's probably a lie, but you can feel his breath on your skin and that makes it alright.)

In this instance you know your love for him is an ugly thing because you shouldn't be glancing up with hopeful eyes that are focused on his mouth. Thing is, you know better; you were taught better. He _deserves_ better.

You kiss him anyway and it only takes him all of two seconds before his mouth is responding and he's leaning into you more, a hand even travelling up to embrace your cheek.

(Your heart’s breaking at his tenderness.)

He kisses you thoroughly, like it’s a goodbye.

(And you know it is.)

He kisses you breathless, which is something he couldn’t have done before.

There's a groan that wants to come out, but it sounds more like a goddamn whimper.

He kisses you like it’s the last time.

(Your heart’s breaking.)

Maybe in another life, a life with no war and incisions, a life without _her,_ the two of you would find a way to be together. You may not be the perfect fit - you would never look as good by his side - but you _know_ each other’s hearts and that’s gotta count for something.

You might not be brave on your own, but you'd fight through anything for Steve.

* * *

You aim and squeeze the trigger and an adversary falls. Most of the time you don't even see a face, their heads hidden behind goggles and inside helmets. Not that it matters because you’d kill anyone shooting at him.

You could squint and look directly down the barrel of your rifle and shoot, bullet after bullet, body after body, because when you finish a mission and see that pleased look on his face you feel—

During one of the missions you notice that his compass holds a picture of Peggy Carter; it takes a remarkable amount of willpower to not react to the fact that he keeps her image so close. _  
_

* * *

You dream of a voice assuring you, " _You're doing very well, soldier"_  and it's soft in a way that makes your heart miss—

You wake up drenched in sweat and petrified. You tell yourself this is why you don’t sleep very much.

It’s half a lie.

* * *

He doesn’t know much about your time spent in captivity, you’ve never talked about it, but he knows Zola was there. The night before you set off for a train that may hold the Doctor, he comes to you, too serious and eyes worried.

“What did Zola…?”

A question you don’t want to answer, don’t even know how to begin answering and you can tell he barely can ask.

Your person suit threatens to fall away. Your mouth is a tight line, shoulders stiff. He glances at the others who are gathered around a fire, drinking a bit, their merriment boisterous and filling the evening. They seem disinterested in Captain America's dealings, so he shifts closer to you. After a hesitation, he clasps the back of your neck and directs you to somewhere more private, into the empty sleeping quarters, it turns out.

You’re up against the door and you think he might kiss you as both hands frame your face. You leave your arms by your side like a good soldier.

(You wish he would kiss you.)

You look up through your dark eyelashes, smile prettily, trying to be a little demure, trying for—

He frowns, so you stop. His hands drop to your shoulders, now having learned his lesson.

“You don’t have to come with us tomorrow,” he says, voice steady, although his eyes say otherwise.

You outright scoff at him, leaning back against the door, jaw tilted up in defiance. “Of course I’m goin’, I’m fine.”

To illustrate your point, you flash him your best practiced "I’m fine" grin.

“You’ve got nothing to prove.”

That, right there, makes you sick to your stomach and he notices the distress take over your face before you can school the expression away.

“That’s my line, punk,” you point out, hoping he’ll take the bait.

He smiles at you, accepting the levity because that’s what makes you the most comfortable. He leans forward and his mouth touches the edge of your hairline by your forehead - it’s almost like a kiss.

“Was so ‘fraid I lost ya,” he admits softly, apparently returning back to more serious subject matter.

You haven't talked about this before. He rests his forehead against yours.

There’s not much space between you, but it’s a distance you can’t—

You flatten your palms against the door; your hands want to be doing a lot of other things, though. Your heart—

“'m right here, Stevie. Not getting rid of me that easily,” you murmur, body still.

You haven't used the nickname since before you were shipped off and it elicits a sigh from him, the puff of air caressing your face. Swallowing, you calm yourself down so that you can be a friend and wrap him in a loose hug. He seems to deflate a little, melting into your touch. It’s almost like—

“And anyway, you’ve got _her_ now, you'd be fine.”

Just like that, all of the bitterness and poison that's usually vented by pulling a trigger is instead spewed out in a handful of words that are sharp and ready to cut.

He pulls back, and you're expecting to see the classic "Steve Rogers is disappointed with you" look, but there's hurt instead, which is far, far worse.

You want nothing to do with the awkwardness you're causing, so you make to push him away and leave this can of worms spilled open on the floor.

He wants nothing to do with the awkwardness either, so he stands his ground until you feel the weight of your words, and stop trying to escape from them.

(The only consolation is that your dick isn't hard.)

Mopey eyes shift into something fiery before he slots his head next to yours, hands clutching onto your shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. Cheek to cheek, mouth hovering over your ear, he whispers in a harsh voice, “Don't you ever say that again - Buck - _never again_.” You're not used to the sheer emotion he's showing. You've seen him lead the charge, stammer around Peggy, hash out strategy, but it's been awhile since you've experienced his  _vulnerability_.

Your arms loop around his waist, because why the fuck not?

You can't tell if it's him or you shaking.

“No one could replace you—”

“Sure doesn’t feel like that,” you interject like an petulant child, you're probably even sulking - you can’t help it. The nuzzle you give him is insistent in trying to get him to tilt his head to the side to allow you access.

He obliges, so place your full lips barely on his neck, over his strong pulse point, and wait for the reprimand.

(And isn’t that what he always does, _obliges_ you?)

The rebuke never comes, so you place feather-light kisses on his skin that's a little sweaty, a little dusty, but completely him. Your tongue licks, your crooked teeth nip, you want to take and take, but—

Your mouth withdraws. “I lo—” you start, but he interrupts.

“I know, Buck… Me too.” He's the one shaking because you're sure he's close to crying if not already doing so. You can hear that frustrated strain on his voice, the serum not having altered that tell one bit. “It's not fair,” he mutters and it reminds you of when he was five foot four, hating injustice, fists up and ready to show anyone just _how much._

You couldn't agree more.  

Love’s not nearly enough.

(If it was, he’d have been yours, it’s as simple as that.)

Love has never been enough, though.

(And you've know that all along.)

And do you do the right thing for once, do what _he_ needs; you hug tightly, withdraw from his neck, and rub soothingly at his back. “Hey, I'm fine… I'll _be_ fine. You've got… You've got a really good thing with Agent Carter. I want my best pal gettin’ hitched to a lovely doll... havin’ a family, the home with the white picket fence - the whole happy ending, that's what a guy like you deserves.”

It's true and you even believe it, but it still sobers you because there's no way you'd be able to be a part of _that_ life. You don’t fit in that picture. He'd try, of course, try to carve a little place out for you in their life, but you'd rather go to Hell than stick around for that.

(Who are you kidding, you'd gratefully take any table scraps he'd give you.)

The next day you zip line to the train Dr. Zola is on. It's been a while since you've had a conversation with him.

* * *

Your arm stretches, reaching, your hand—

The train is moving too fast and the metal groans.

He reaches, he _tries,_

but you fall anyway.

Terror rips through you as you realize that he can’t save you this time.

(Yes, you believed this war would eventually claim you, but not like _this_ , not with him there to bear witness.)

This isn't how you’re supposed to die; he's not supposed to see it; he’s not supposed to hear your scream.

When you fell in love with Steve Rogers it was a gradual growth, a flush that started so subtle in your chest, but never left you. Your love grew like a slowly catching fire, the delicate tinder caught during youth, and as the flames licked and spread through the stacked odds of life, your kindling spirits ignited and started to burn warmly.

You’re cold now, though. Falling fast, the biting wind like a blanket of water, dousing the flames, stirring and soaking the embers, as the distance between him and you grows and grows until you’re taken under the snow, beginning to freeze and finally feeling _nothing_.

(Honestly, it’s a reprieve.)

**Author's Note:**

> Story title taken from "Hometown" by Twenty One Pilots; series title taken from "The Judge" by Twenty One Pilots  
> Gee, I wonder what I was listening to? "Goner" was a major song on repeat as well... Also, Peggy-jealousy was totally fuelled by Gnash's "I Hate U I Love U"  
> The "person suit" notion was taken from NBC's Hannibal. It's beautiful imagery that fit and I had to use it, sry :C  
> 


End file.
